


And Baby Makes Three

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters embark on an unusual hunt and find they have some extra help (or is that hindrance) from a very unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The old text wasn't getting any more interesting the longer Sam stared at it. In fact if anything, it was becoming even more unfathomable.

Reports of five people going missing in the space of six months around the denser woodlands of Kansas had piqued the Winchesters' interest. Two hikers and two hunters; all gone, seemingly vanishing without trace, plus a lone horseback rider whose horse had turned up two days later, agitated, dripping with tree sap and riderless, but otherwise completely unharmed.

It was the horse that had given the brothers the clue they needed.

They concluded that they were hunting a Leshy; a malevolent and mischevious woodland spirit whose sole aim in life was to protect the flora and fauna of the forest from people. Even if the people in question didn't actually mean any harm; simply being human was reason enough for a Leshy to go postal on you. The hikers, the hunters and the rider had all paid a dear price just for being human. The horse, it would appear, had counted as fauna and thus had not been harmed.

But regardless of the details of the case, finding a way to kill the thing meant ploughing through endless hours of eye-wateringly tedious Slavic lore.

Sam tried not to dwell on the fact that he was the one who had ended up stuck in the Letters' library with that particular job after Dean had muttered something cryptic about having to do something important somewhere else and had promptly disappeared like a rat up a drainpipe.

Sitting back, he rolled his shoulders, taking a tentative sip of his long-cold coffee in a half-hearted bid for a caffeine boost. Blinking wetly, he knuckled his tired eyes before he dared to look back at the interminably boring leatherbound text which lay on the massive table before him among an ocean of paper scrolls.

It was at that moment that he heard the sound of Dean's rapid footsteps echoing heavily through the bunker seconds before the man himself barrelled through the doorway wiping his hands on an oily rag. His hands hadn't been the only things he'd wiped on it if the black smudge across his nose was any indication.

"Hey Sammy," he grinned; "y'know what? This place is all kinds of awesome!"

Sam glanced up blearily; "really?" He hoped that Dean would catch the note of exasperation in his voice.

His vain hope was cruelly dashed when his little note of exasperation whistled over Dean's oblivious head at a safe distance.

"Yeah," Dean gushed, hopping up to sit on the table beside Sam and unceremoniously scattering all his research papers in the process. "I've just been down in the bunker's garage doing some work on my Baby," he blathered enthusiastically; "and everything I needed was down there. Not just tools – I'm talking about parts too."

Sam stared blankly at him.

"She'd been misfiring a bit," Dean explained, eyes sparkling with glee; "so I changed the spark plugs and a couple of solenoids, and I never even had to leave the room," he genuinely looked like all his birthdays had fallen over each other at once; "it was all there, loads of stuff in great big cabinets in the garage and along through into the basement." Breathless with excitement, he continued; "I'm not even sure if some of this stuff is actually even meant to be used on cars," he added; "you know with the Men of Letters, it could be freakin' anything, but hey – they fit, they work. They're good parts."

He paused for breath momentarily, an exercise which also gave him an opportunity to gauge whether Sam was keeping up with what was admittedly a very one-sided conversation.

Sam for his part was almost ready to shove his seven-hundred page grimoire on Slavic mythology right up Dean's ass, if Dean hadn't already been halfway toward doing the job himself by sitting on top of the damn thing.

"Ah, c'mon Sammy," Dean prompted, playfully punching Sam in the shoulder; "I've worked marvels down there. I didn't just fix stuff that needed fixing; I've given her a complete overhaul. I've rewired her lights and her radio, changed her bearings and practically rebuilt her engine from the inside out." His beaming grin was one of pure, radiant self-satisfaction. "My Baby's gonna run like a freakin' champion."

"You've been messing around with the car?" Sam eventually grumbled. "I've been sitting here researching this garbage until my eyeballs shrivel, and you've been messing around with the damn car! Couldn't it wait?"

Dean glanced around him; "what garbage?"

"The garbage that you just parked your ass on," Sam muttered darkly.

Sliding down off the table Dean deigned to cast a glance at the ancient, now somewhat flattened, book.

"Ugh, yeah – see what you mean," he mumbled. "And no, it couldn't wait," he added more forcefully; "if we're gonna be driving across state hunting this skanky thing, I want my Baby in tip-top condition."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He hated to admit it, but he had to accept that Dean was right - in his own uniquely bull-headed way. The Impala was their lifeline on their hunts. She routinely served as accommodation, protection, store-room and getaway vehicle and so they needed her to be totally dependable.

And thanks to Dean's formidable skill in dealing with cars, she usually was.

Although Sam wasn't entirely sure where tuning the radio fitted in with that requirement.

xxxxx

"Say, I wanna give her a run out," Dean suddenly announced; "there's a great bar two towns along, they have a poker game on Wednesday nights. Why don't we have a night out?"

"But Dean," Sam protested, gesturing across the paper-strewn table; "I'm not finished here yet."

"Aw c'mon Sammy," Dean countered, seemingly uncaring of the faint whine that crept into his voice; "we ain't been out for nearly a week. I'm going freakin' stir crazy in this place."

"But, Dean …"

"All work an' no play," coaxed Dean; "you know what they say – it makes Sammy a boring bitch."

"Dean, no. I'm … hey! That's not what they say." Sam's eyes flashed dangerously.

Dean's grin was the grin of a man who knew the argument was won.

"Dean …"

Dean turned to look directly at Sam - and that was all she wrote. Sam couldn't understand how people said HE was the one who could pull the puppy eyes out of the bag when he needed to. Dean, the conniving bastard, could manufacture a pair of goddamn Bambi eyes that could melt granite.

Sam sort of hated Dean just a little bit right now.

"Okay," he sighed wearily, slamming the book closed; "you win."

"Awesome," Dean couldn't help a little triumphant fistpump.

"But you're helping me with this research tomorrow – hangover or not," Sam added swiftly, effecting his sternest voice.

"Sure thing Sammy," Dean chuckled and slapped Sam's back so hard his teeth rattled.

"C'mon, bitch - let's go!"

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Slumped into the Impala's passenger seat, Sam watched in thoughtful silence as mile after mile of shimmering black asphalt disappeared beneath her imposing hood.

He didn't have a fraction of Dean's knowledge or innate skill with vehicles and engines, but he didn't have to have any knowledge at all to know that the Impala was probably running more smoothly and more powerfully than at any time since the day she had rolled off the assembly line. Dean truly had worked wonders on her.

His eyes gradually slipped out of focus as the soporific thrum of her engine together with the flickering blur of the passing landscape began to lull him into a trance, and he couldn't deny that it felt good.

"Just listen to her purr," Dean grinned as he broke Sam's reverie with a sharp nudge in the ribs; "my girl's running like bottled lightning."

"She sure sounds good," Sam agreed with a vacant nod; "I don't think I've ever heard her sound so smooth."

Dean patted her steering wheel; "that's because I'm a freakin' genius," he grinned.

A brief moment of silence passed between the brothers, during which the only sound that filled the Impala's cabin was the velvety purr of her engine. It was Dean who eventually spoke up.

"So, speaking of geniuses, what did you find out about this skanky-assed thing we're hunting?"

"Uh, that it's skanky," Sam replied; "it's a Leshy."

"You say that like it actually means something to me," Dean replied absently, still clearly far more interested in the tone of the Impala's engine than anything Sam had to say.

Sam decided there and then that he needed to make this explanation swift and keep to words of one syllable if he was to make any inroads at all into Dean's limited attention span.

"Okay, well this thing's a woodland spirit," he began; "it …"

"It's a ghost?" Dean interrupted.

"Well, no; more like a faerie," Sam replied.

"A freakin' faerie?" Dean gave a derisory snort; "we're bustin' our asses to gank Tinkerbelle?"

"Hardly," Sam replied sharply; "this thing's bigger than either of us and it hates humans. It's known for capturing people that wander through its forest and killing them off.

"How?" Dean asked.

"Well, like most faeries, it's a prankster," Sam explained; "only this one's pranks go way beyond mischief. It's got one seriously sick sense of humour; it likes to play pranks with a deadly twist."

"Right …" Dean mumbled, inviting Sam to continue.

"It uses its spiritual bond with the forest and its faerie powers to disorient travellers. It leads them astray so that they lose their way and stumble into marshes where they drown or they fall over cliffs or into ants nests; or it leads them into caves or ditches and then it just leaves them trapped there to starve to death. Sometimes, it likes to toy with its captives, doing horrible things like stringing them up, or sitting on them and slowly squashing them or …" Sam hesitated; "… or it tickles them to death."

Dean finally looked up from the Impala's wheel.

"Tickles them to … ?" Dean grinned; "the kinky sonofabitch! Some people pay good money for that sort of thing."

"Dean," snapped Sam; "this isn't funny – people are dying!"

Dean schooled his smirk into more of an attentive smile; "okay, so how'd we gank it?"

Sam sighed; "I need to do more work on this, but as far as I can see, wrought iron does the trick."

"Wrought iron?" Dean snorted; "not just any iron? Typical."

Sam shrugged; "no," he replied; "not just any iron. Iron is a natural product of the earth so faeries have no fear or aversion to it."

"They would if I brained them with a lump of it," Dean grunted sulkily.

"Whatever," Sam replied, unimpressed; "wrought iron is tempered by mankind and so faeries are repelled by it. We can figure out the finer details tomorrow when YOU help me with the research I'm not doing right now."

Dean nodded insincerely. "Sure thing bro'," he replied cockily, swinging the Impala through a weathered gateway; "and here's the reason why we're not researching tonight!"

The impala rolled smoothly into the ramshackle parking lot of an equally ramshackle looking bar, tackily named 'the Golden Fleece', and Dean was up and on his feet, crunching across the gravel before Sam had even opened his door.

xxxxx

Every time Sam accompanied Dean to some spit-and-sawdust bar, he remembered why he hated accompanying Dean to some spit-and-sawdust bar and why, every time, he swore blind he'd never do it again.

So how was it, then, that he was standing here right now looking around the murky interior of this undeniably spit-and-sawdust bar?

A lifetime's experience of bars had taught Sam that when his feet stuck to the floor and the lead item on the specials board was a creation with a name like 'the Vesuvius TNT Tabasco Taco', then he was in for the crappiest of crap nights.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, he dropped heavily down into a seat, burrowing as far into the dimmest corner of the building as he could, and waited while Dean hovered around the bar, buying the first of the night's refreshments and shamelessly charming a young blonde bartender in the process.

He was sure he could feel a migraine coming on.

xxxxx

In the end, their night exceeded all of Sam's expectations in its appallingness.

Five interminably long hours spent nursing the same bottle of beer (because Sam just knew he was going to end up driving back to the motel) and listening to music that wasn't even cool when it was released in 1979 wasn't exactly his idea of stimulating entertainment. Furthermore, fending off advances from local bimbos with the personality and eloquence of a fencepost was trying Sam's dwindling reserves of patience to the limit.

He briefly considered retiring to the mens' room and barricading himself inside one of the stalls to obtain a little of the peace and solitude he craved, until he remembered that he needed to be here to keep an eye on Dean.

Disappearing into the crowd early in the evening, Dean was busy doing the rounds of the establishment's moneymaking opportunities. He'd already crashed a Poker game and was now well into his seventh game of Pool and, by the look of things, making a handsome profit at both.

The problem there was that a toxic combination of Dean's talent for hustling plus his smart mouth meant that the potential for a punch in the teeth was never very far away. Therefore, Sam felt duty bound to act as Dean's unofficial bodyguard while he was busy parting the local rednecks from their hard-earned cash - even though the jerk had abandoned him without a backwards glance, leaving him sitting here all night all on his ownsome like Samantha freakin' Sad Act.

Sam could have cried with relief when shortly before midnight, Dean stumbled back toward him on legs which appeared to have forgotten the value of teamwork.

"C'mon bro'," he grinned crookedly, extravagantly fanning his flushed face with an impressive wad of crumpled notes while, at the same time, making a grab for Sam's lukewarm beer and draining the remaining dregs; "lessgo!"

Leaping up from the table, Sam couldn't move fast enough as he herded Dean in something resembling a straight line toward the door.

xxxxx

The cool night air washed over them as they emerged from the fetid atmosphere inside the building. It felt as fresh and clear as the stars that illuminated it, and Sam closed his eyes, pulling in the deepest breath he could manage to try to clear his nasal passages of the lingering miasma of burgers, onions, beer and BO. It was when he opened his eyes again that he saw Dean clumsily stabbing the key into the lock on the Impala's driver's door.

"Oh, no way," he snorted, striding over to Dean and making a grab for the keys; "you're not driving in that state!"

Surprisingly sharp for one so tanked, Dean snatched the keys backwards out of Sam's grasp.

"Gi'it a rest, S'mantha," he grumbled; "'m fine. I do 'zactly wha' I'm knowing."

"Sure you do," Sam replied blankly; "now give me the keys."

"No," Dean snapped; "geddin the car."

Holding out his cupped hand toward Dean; the expression on Sam's face booked no argument. "Dean, I'm not kidding; give me the damn keys. NOW."

Dean's mouth opened, ready to respond with what he would, no doubt, consider a witty rejoinder, when a third voice joined the debate.

It was husky and strong, and undeniably female; and neither brother had ever heard it before that moment. "Dean Winchester," it scolded; "you're not getting behind my wheel in that condition. You hand those keys to Sammy right now!"

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

The Winchesters froze, staring at each other for a long silent moment before Dean spoke up. "Jeez," he mumbled, meekly handing the keys to Sam; "I mus' be freakin' drunker'n I thought. I could ha' sworn the 'mpala just freakin' spoke to me!"

Sam shook his head slowly, never once taking his eyes from Dean's face. "No," he murmured; "I mean, yes, you are drunk … but I heard it too."

"B-but …" Dean began, and then tailed off into silence, seemingly lost for words.

"But, that's ridiculous – the Impala can't talk," Sam spluttered; "she's a car, she hasn't got a larynx. Cars don't talk."

"You haven't got a tail-pipe, honey, but you still manage to pass a whole load of gas," came the response from their mysterious third voice.

Dean couldn't stifle the laugh that burst forth at the sight of the outraged gape that appeared on Sam's face, clearly reddening, even under the harsh glare of a nearby streetlamp.

Clumsily squatting down in front of the Impala, Dean almost toppled face-first into her grille as he fought to balance on his haunches. Clearing his throat, he addressed her directly.

"Hey Baby," he crooned softly, as if he were talking to a skittish filly; "you talkin' to us?"

"Well, I'm not talking to myself, sweetie; that would just be whole buckets of crazy."

Dean looked up through the diffused grey light of the streetlamp at Sam, face stretched into a stunned, pebble-eyed mask.

"Dean," Sam snapped, throwing his arms up in exasperation; "the car talking AT ALL is freakin'whole buckets of crazy."

"Okay," The Impala announced suddenly; "that's enough of that. You boys need to get home and get to bed; it's late, it's cold and you're both beat."

She glared at them.

Neither brother could adequately explain how a car was capable of glaring but there was no doubt in either Winchesters' mind that her metal frame had suddenly taken on a very authoritative mien.

"Uh, right;" Sam nodded timidly and pulled her driver's door open, deliberately climbing inside before Dean could get any ideas in that direction.

xxxxx

The Impala's new-found abilities didn't appear to have had any detrimental effect on her running as Sam pointed her nose toward the bunker. She carried her boys towards their home, sailing along the deserted road as smoothly and as powerfully as ever she had.

However, that wasn't to say that their journey home was in any way quiet.

"You always did get cranky when you got tired, Sammy," she announced, her voice clearly audible over the thrum of her engine; "you were such a beautiful baby, and very sweet natured, but you turned into an absolute monster when you got tired."

"I wasn't … I didn't … but …" Sam gabbled in affronted outrage as Dean looked on with unbridled and distinctly sadistic pleasure.

"She's right," Dean added, taking great delight in fanning the flames; "y'were a cool baby 'cept when you got tired, then y'turned into a pissy li'l scream machine."

The Impala chuckled; "pissy is the word," she added; the wink, although mechanically impossible, was nevertheless still very much there in the tone of her voice.

"Yep, y'not wrong;" Dean sniggered; "we used to ha' to put in a bulk order for diapers."

Sam fixed his eyes on the road ahead, his face set into a deliberately unpissy scowl.

"Well what about golden boy over there," he snorted, pointing a thumb at Dean; "I'll bet he wasn't a perfect baby either!"

"Oh honey, my sweet little Deanie-Bean was just the most adorable little cutie-pie," she cooed.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever …" Dean interrupted, spots of pink beginning to colour his cheeks as he waved a hand dismissively in Sam's direction.

"Oh yeah?" Sam grinned, sensing an unmissable opportunity for toe-curling humiliation; "tell me more about, uh, Deanie-Bean."

"Hey, what's on the radio?" Dean blurted, cranking up the volume, and seemingly unconcerned that it was cheesy gospel music that came blaring out.

His relief didn't last long as the radio inexplicably shut itself off.

"Yes, he was just the sweetest little baby ever," she began with a coquettish giggle in her voice; "gorgeous blond hair and huge green eyes that you could swim in," the smile was clearly audible in her voice; "always laughing and showing the world the one and only little tooth he'd managed to sprout up until he was a year old."

"Uh, Baby …" Dean spluttered; "yeah, thanks but …"

"Hush now honey, and take the compliment," she scolded affectionately.

Sam stifled a laugh as Dean realised this was one argument he wasn't going to win and sat back, burrowing sulkily into the passenger seat; he could feel the heat radiating off Dean; but he wasn't letting the smug dick off this lightly.

"Yeah? That cute huh?"

"Oh yes," she agreed; "but dribble – I've never seen so much drool; my seats used to be awash with it. I swear you've killed chupacabras that didn't drool as much as that little tyke did."

"Is that so?" Sam prompted with a snigger.

"Hey look, we're nearly home; "Dean announced loudly in a desperate attempt to change the subject, and failed parlously.

"Yes, with his little pink rosebud lips and his squishy little chubby tummy, he was just the cutest little pudding you've ever seen."

Shaking with laughter, Sam pulled the Impala to a halt outside the entrance to the bunker's garage and engaged the parking brake. Wiping tears of hilarity from his eyes, he tried hard to temper the grin on his face as he turned to chance a glance at Dean.

The expression on Dean's florid face wasn't exactly what Sam would describe as cute right at that moment.

xxxxx

With the Impala safely ensconsed in the bunker's spacious garage, the Winchesters turned to head toward their rooms. Dean paused and turned back to her; "uh, g'night Baby," he mumbled; "y'gonna be okay?"

"I'll be just fine and dandy," she replied; "now you get to your beds and get some rest. Goodnight boys, sleep tight."

Sam had to practically drag Dean out of the garage.

xxxxx

The following morning, after a revoltingly greasy breakfast which had made some small contribution toward easing Dean's hangover and restoring his power of coherent speech, Sam had eventually managed to coax Dean into the library, and had him sitting down and researching the Leshy hunt, exactly where he wanted him.

"So, it says here that Leshys are repelled by wrought iron," Sam read aloud from a dust-coated tome on the table in front of him; "it says …"

"It must have been those parts I put in her …" Dean announced out of the blue; "I mean, there's no other freakin' logical reason she should be talking, is there …?"

Sam looked up. "No Dean, there isn't any other logical reason." He paused for a moment before gesturing expansively across the books and the laptop spread out on the table between them; "uh, the Leshy?" he prompted.

"Oh, uh, yeah …" Dean sighed. Listlessly picking up a scroll, he stared at it, scanning the words blankly and obviously without any attention given that it was upside down.

"But the other book here says that it can be killed by a weapon made out of any metal that is not pure of the earth." Sam turned the book toward Dean, pointing toward the relevant passage; "so I wonder if that means …"

"I mean, they were the right sort of parts for her, so they're not doing her any harm, but it's kinda weird isn't it?" Dean muttered vacantly.

Sam's head dropped into his hands and he let out a long sigh of abject defeat.

"Dean," he groaned; "go down to the garage; do what the hell you gotta do."

Dean had tossed the scroll back on the table and was up and out of his chair before the last words had even left Sam's mouth.

"Thanks Sammy," he grinned as he strode toward the exit.

"You're welcome – Deanie-Bean," Sam called after him.

Dean's middle finger was the last thing he saw before the Library door slammed shut behind Dean's retreating silhouette.

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Kneeling down in front of the Impala, Dean reached up and unhooked the catch on her hood.

"Uh, um, sorry," he muttered as he carefully opened it; "this is all kinda awkward now."

"Sweetie, you've been rooting around in my innards since you were three years old," the Impala replied calmly; "there's nothing in there you haven't seen a million times before."

Dean took a long breath as he rubbed the back of his neck; "yeah, but …"

"But nothing," the Impala replied; "if it wasn't for you, I'd have been good for nothing but the scrapyard years ago. A girl of my vintage needs her moving parts lubricated every now and again."

There was that implied wink again, and Dean felt his cheeks and ears burn.

"You know, you're awfully cute when you blush."

"Shut up," Dean mumbled bashfully as he ducked down under the hood.

xxxxx

Sam shut his laptop and sat back stretching his arms behind his head with a weary sigh. He was satisfied with the progress he'd made, and finally felt that he was armed with all the knowledge that they might need to tangle with the Leshy.

Mentally running through the weapons the brothers had at their disposal, Sam knew they had an impresssive armoury of knives and all sorts of other blades made of steel, bronze, pewter and brass; all alloys, so therefore, nothing pure of the earth.

However, he couldn't help wondering if he should do this hunt alone.

The Leshy was clever; obnoxious and deadly too, but very clever – and very cunning, rather like the Trickster only without the witty repartee. The Winchesters would need their full complement of wits about them.

But Dean was distracted right now; perhaps obsessed might be more of an accurate description. This latest development with the Impala had him completely bamboozled, and bamboozled was so not a good thing to be when you were about to set off and go hand to hand with something that could think of a thousand unpleasant ways to kill you.

That said, he knew that if he went off alone to deal with the Leshy - even if he succeeded - he'd have an irate brother waiting to kill him upon his return. If he discussed his concerns with Dean he'd get the patented Dean Winchester eye-roll and told to stop worrying.

He sighed.

He may as well go down to the garage and see how Dean was getting on; perhaps if Dean had found answers to his questions, he might be a little more focussed.

One could only hope.

xxxxx

Armed with two mugs of coffee, Sam had barely shouldered open the door to the bunker's garage, when he was yanked by his shirtfront into the room by Dean beaming like a loon and hopping from toe to toe in feverish excitement. At least Sam guessed that's what it was; either that or he needed a pee real bad.

"We figured it out," Dean gasped breathlessly, snatching one of the coffees out of Sam's hand and sloshing half of it over the floor in the process; "at least," he added with a proud nod toward his Baby; "she figured it out."

"Right," Sam replied cautiously; "and …?"

"Tell him Baby," Dean grinned, giving the Impala's fender a loving pat.

"Those parts that Dean found and put in me," she began; "I can sense their purpose; almost like they're telling me what they're for," she began.

Sam's brow furrowed; "I don't follow you," he muttered hesitantly with a scratch of the head.

He could have sworn the Impala sighed before continuing, as if she was talking to an idiot. "Dean said he found those parts in a store cupboard here in the Letters' workshop," she began; "well, many years ago, the Men of Letters were experimenting with robotics."

Sam glanced at Dean in confusion; "robotics?" he mouthed.

Dean waved him off dismissively; "shut up and listen;" he replied irritably.

"Not robotics in the sense that we now know it," she continued; "but they were trying to create automatons that could communicate through a level of basic artificial intelligence, and that could be sent into dangerous places, to check things out; you know, to be drones – like those little gadgets the army sends into minefields or the things that NASA send into space."

Sam's brow furrowed even deeper; "did the Men of Letters ever have that level of technology?" he asked in amazement.

"No, it wasn't through technology, Sam," the Impala replied; "they were experimenting with spells, incantations, magic; whatever you want to call it. The components were more mechanical than technical, and the Letters were bespelling them to communicate with the person operating them, but also to communicate with each other when they were built into the machine – much like the components of a computer have to talk with each other for it to work properly. That's what the Men of Letters were trying to achieve, Sam, and the parts that Dean found are some of the components they had been working with to create these automatons. That's why I can understand what the components' purpose are."

Sam's face dropped into a shocked gape as he turned to Dean. "See," Dean grinned; "my Baby's a scientific marvel." He paused for a moment before continuing; "oh just for the record, your level of intelligence is NOT basic Baby, you're one super smart chick."

"So …"Sam raked his fingers through his hair as he turned back to the Impala; "that's incredible, are there any of these … robots down here?"

Dean shook his head; "no," he replied with a shrug; "I turned the place upside down after she told me and found bupkis; I guess the idea never got off the ground – either that or they ran out of time when they were all … you know..."

"Wow," Sam huffed out a deep breath; "just when you thought this place couldn't amaze you anymore."

Dean nodded enthusiastically.

"It's a good idea when you think about it," Sam added; "I mean, hunters are few and far between as it is, and I know the Men of Letters didn't like them, but even they could see the value of hunters, and that the hunters' life was dangerous. I guess they thought if they could reduce the risk even a little, they might save a couple of lives – you know – more hunters, living longer, equals more monsters dealt with."

Dean nodded, taking a sip of his coffee, when his expression suddenly hardened and he turned; abruptly placing himself between Sam and the Impala.

"Don't you go getting any ideas about using my girl as cannon fodder," Dean snorted, and Sam fought to stifle a snort as Dean stood with arms outstretched forming a barrier between them.

"Oh unknot your panties, Deanie-Bean," the Impala's voice spoke up; "you know perfectly well Sammy wouldn't harm me," she reassured.

"I wouldn't dare," Sam added, raising his hands in surrender as he cast a glance at Dean's defiant scowl.

"Anyway," the Impala gave a little chuckle as she changed the subject; "Dean, if you wouldn't mind closing my hood; I believe young Sammy has been working hard on a job for us to do."

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

A three hour drive to the location for the nights' hunt gave the Winchesters an opportunity to discuss the Leshy. For once Dean appeared quite focussed in his own uniquely Deanish way, and Sam was chalking that up as a win in his book.

The Impala, for her part, had been unusually quiet on the journey, knowing better than to distract her boys during such an important conversation.

"So like I said," Sam continued his narrative from the notes he'd made; "as far as I can tell, we've got all the weapons we could possibly need to kill it, we've just got to be sure we keep out of its way except at the very last minute."

"'Case it tricks us?" Dean asked, demonstrating to Sam that he actually had been paying attention.

"Yeah, Sam nodded enthusiastically; "and the best way to do that is to trick it back."

"I still prefer the option of skewering it through the throat," Dean mumbled.

"Yeah well," Sam continued, ignoring Dean's protests; "all the lore says that travellers can confuse it. They should put their clothes on backwards or inside out, and put their shoes on the wrong feet, that way the Leshy can't tell which way round you are or which direction you're moving in."

Dean chanced a glance across to Sam; "So, old Treebeard ain't the brightest tree in the forest then?" He sniggered briefly before his face dropped into a petulant scowl; "seriously? I'm gonna look a complete dick with my pants on backwards!"

Sam shrugged; "yeah, wellbeing strung up or drowned or tickled to death by the Leshy is so not a good look either."

"Man," Dean groaned; "the things I do for this friggin' job."

"Oh yeah," Sam continued; "and it's apparently also a good mimic and it uses that to trick and confuse its victims too."

Dean glanced across at him and shrugged; "how?" he grunted.

"Well," Sam began; "if you hear my voice calling for help or anything like that, be real careful, because it could be the Leshy luring you into danger."

Dean smirked; "I never listen to your voice anyway, it just kinda fades into white noise after a while."

It was at that point the Impala decided to join the conversation. "You always did have a smart mouth, Dean Winchester," she scolded; "now stow your smartass comments, and listen to Sammy; he's trying to keep you safe."

Dean glanced across at his smugly grinning brother. "Jeez, first there's Sam and now I'm getting grief from the car," he groaned, throwing his hands up in mock despair; "I'm destined to spend my life surrounded by nagging women."

He ignored the prize bitchface Sam sent his way.

"Yes, well Smart-Alec,"she replied; "given that I've carried you around since you were a newborn, I've had you puking over me, peeing in me and falling asleep face first into your food in me; I think I've earned the right to nag you now and then."

"Honestly," she added; "Sammy was never that much trouble."

"You can't hold all that against me," Dean grumbled; "I was only a baby."

"You were nineteen," the Impala retorted smartly.

Dean shot a look of wounded indignation across to Sam who barked out a laugh so hard he sounded like he was about to burst a blood vessel.

A brief sulky silence fell over the impala's cabin, punctuated only by Sam's sniggering, until Dean spoke up again.

"Hold on," he murmured, a look of wide-eyed alarm growing across his face; "if you remember all that stuff, do you remember any of the times when I, you know … like, with a girl?"

"Sweetie," the Impala replied; "don't be coy, it doesn't suit you. I'm not some blushing schoolgirl; I'm forty seven years old. I'm a woman of the world." She paused for a moment, seemingly revelling in Dean's discomfort; "I know a healthy young man has needs, so I'm not going to judge you for bringing those fat-assed, brainless little floozies back here."

Sam basked in the crimson glow that was radiating from Dean's face, grinning in unashamed satisfaction at the very real possibility that Dean's ears might actually spontaneously combust.

"yeah, but …"

"Of course, none of them were good enough for you," she added sniffily; "oh, except that one with the long blonde hair and the dolphin tattoo on her bottom; I liked her. She was the one who found that special little sensitive spot that makes you go all wriggly; you know the one on your …"

"Okay, OKAY" Dean snapped, his voice rising in volume and pitch as panic set in; "no more, okay? One more word and I'm taking your battery out."

Even Sam was looking vaguely nauseous now.

"It wouldn't achieve anything if you did," she replied calmly and as if by way of a demonstration, she whipped her steering wheel to the right, dislodging her shocked driver's sweaty hands and pulled over slowly onto the side of the road, rolling to a smooth stop before engaging her parking brake.

"There," she said sweetly, "now you can jump out and have that pee you've been desperate to have for the last hour."

"What am I? Six? I don't need a pee," Dean snorted indignantly.

Dean, you know you can't lie to me. Do you think I can't feel you fidgeting and bouncing around in my seat," she replied; "now go on, go do what you need to do. Next time be a good boy and go before you leave the bunker."

Dean scowled as he obediently opened the door, trying his best to ignore the stifled laughter coming from Sam's side of the car.

"I think I might have to join you," Sam snorted, wiping his eyes as he choked through his laughter.

"You can friggin' wait until I get back, bitch," Dean grunted.

xxxxx

It was another hours driving before the Winchesters arrived at the spot which Sam had calculated as the epicentre of all the Leshy attacks. The forested areas were well served by access tracks for rangers, foresters and emergency vehicles, they were pleased to note, so they could park the Impala up away from the main drag and conceal her among the trees, away from places where she might draw attention.

Suddenly, the Winchesters' conversation turned serious.

"Okay, Sam, you got the maps?"

"Yeah, you got the knives?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded as he reluctantly shucked his jacket turning it inside out.

"I'm going to look such a prize jerk," he grumbled.

"Shoes on the wrong feet too," Sam reminded him as he reach down and began unbuttoning his fly.

"Great," Dean sighed; "I'm gonna be a prize jerk with blisters."

Sam ignored him.

Eventually they were ready, jackets on backwards, pants on inside out and boots on the wrong feet; and looking, as Dean rightly pointed out, like a pair of prize jerks.

"Okay Baby," Dean turned to the Impala and patted her fender. "We'll be back for you before nightfall."

"You boys be careful now," she replied; "are you sure you've got everything? You got all the weapons you need?"

"Yeah," Dean replied.

"You got water?"

Sam nodded; "yes," he pointed to the black flask slung on a long strap over his shoulder."

"What about your phones," she checked; "you've got them, haven't you?"

"Yes," both Winchesters responded in unison; "and look, we appreciate the concern," Dean added; "but if you ask me if I've got clean underwear on, that's it; I'm trading you in for a station wagon."

"I just saw your underwear - it met with my approval," she replied mischieviously. "Okay, go on," she continued, her demeanour suddenly turning solemn; "go … and be careful."

xxxxx

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	6. Chapter 6

After a long, soul-destroying day spent wandering the desolate expanses of the forest, both of the Winchesters were hungry, sweaty, dishevelled and grouchily harbouring a sense of totally wasted effort.

There had been no sign of the Leshy at all. The inconsiderate bastard hadn't been near or by all day; not even the merest hint of anything remotely Leshy-like. As if to compound their failure, they had seen barely any signs of life at all. In fact, the only living creature of any persuasion they had seen, aside from each other of course, had been a particularly disgruntled squirrel who had been unceremoniously disturbed from his busy foraging by the two heavy footed strangers. He'd unfortunately been left under no illusions as to exactly how heavy-footed they were after Dean had accidentally trodden on his tail.

By now, the day was gradually waning, melting into night, and the sunset's russet tendrils were beginning to creep over the horizon; filtering softly through the whispering boughs of the trees and bathing the Winchesters and the forest around them in a shifting kaleidoscope of red and gold.

"C'mon, dude," sighed Sam eventually; "I'm done, it's a bust."

Dean glanced across at Sam and huffed out a frustrated grunt in agreement.

"Maybe we need to look into this a bit more;" Sam mused absently; "I could have sworn I'd gathered all the facts we needed," he continued, seemingly taking the Leshy's no-show as a personal sleight; "I was sure the Leshy hunted by day - I mean people don't go into the forest at night, do they? Maybe I missed something."

Dean wearily clapped him on the shoulder; "nah, maybe it's just moved on," he replied; "or it doesn't hunt every day. This thing's so frickin' weird, who knows how it behaves or how its stupid mind works."

"We can try again tomorrow, just to be sure," he added; "maybe stay in the forest overnight so that we can explore more over the other side?"

Sam nodded in mute agreement.

"But right now, I just wanna get back to my baby, and go somewhere where I can get some decent chow and a beer," Dean grumbled; "man, I'm starving." As if to reinforce the fact, his neglected belly let out a loud gurgling rumble which echoed across the torpid evening silence and startled a grouse from its nest in the roots of a dying elm.

"Good idea, maybe she'll find some more embarrassing dirt to dish on you," Sam grinned, nudging Dean in the ribs.

"Oh no, it's your turn tonight princess," Dean snorted in response; "I'm gonna bribe her with a complete oil change and a full set of new tyres to relive some of your finest moments."

"You've seen them all" Sam replied with a shrug; "I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I've been out in the Impala without you."

"That time we sneaked out to the fair and you ate cotton candy 'til you puked; that was funny," Dean reflected, deliberately ignoring Sam's valid argument.

"I was six," Sam replied; "and you were the one that bought it all for me," he added; "you enabler!"

Dean sniggered, utterly remorseless; "only you could produce bright pink puke. It kinda suited you."

"Yeah, well, you were too young to drive, and we slipped away while Dad was out on a hunt so she never witnessed that one," Sam grinned; "thank God," he added.

"What about when you had your growth spurt," Dean continued, determined in his quest to humiliate his brother; "what were you, about fifteen? We couldn't afford to replace your jeans right away so you were walking around, all teenage angst, looking like your pants had fallen out with your feet." Dean was openly laughing now; "the Impala witnessed that little gem," he spluttered.

"Of course she did, I was like that for weeks before I got new pants," Sam scowled. "Anyway, you're only jealous because you didn't HAVE a growth spurt, short-stack," he added with the smuggest grin he could produce; "yours was more like a growth ooze."

He half laughed, half gasped as Dean punched him in the shoulder; "I'm not short, I'm normal," he added; "you're a freak."

Sam shook his head with a smile as the insult drifted harmlessly over him; "anyway, never mind being embarrassed about anything," he mutttered; "I'm still trying to process 'the car can talk'."

xxxxx

The brothers made a slow steady progress through the forest's darkening canopy toward the waiting Impala, and a companionable silence settled over them until they reached the forest's edge where Dean eventually spoke up.

"So, if we're giving up the hunt for tonight, does that mean I can put my clothes back on the right way?" He asked; "my feet are aching a freakin' treat and you don't even wanna know where these pants are chafing."

Sam rolled his eyes; "you're right Dean, I don't want to know."

Sam knew they were only a stonesthrow from where they had left the Impala; he was sure he could see the distant glint of her paintwork in the low evening sunlight. So, he guessed that it was probably right about time to rearrange themselves into some semblance of normality, especially if they were heading off to hit the nearest diner. As he looked around, he saw that Dean had already made the decision for both of them and was leaning back against the mossy, gnarled trunk of a nearby tree as he balanced on one leg, working the first of his boots off. He let out a deep sigh of relief as his abused foot emerged.

Dropping the offending boot on the ground, Dean lifted the other leg and began to pull his second boot off.

His sigh of relief at being rid of the second boot was abruptly drowned out by Sam's cry of shock as the tree suddenly twisted round and coiled a stringy, knotted bough around Dean's neck.

xxxxx

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	7. Chapter 7

Shaking away a brief moment of shock, Sam lunged wildly toward the Leshy, almost faceplanting over the leafy debris which littered the forest floor in his ill-fitting wrong-footed boots.

He cringed as he approached the grotesque creature, staring at its leathery hide, gnarled and twisted and pocked with lichen like a rotting tree-trunk. The two beady black eyes which were sunk into the rough furrows of its face glared at Dean, glimmering with malice as it tightened its grip with a cruel relish. Its long arms were stringy and gnarled; branches by any other name, and they tapered off into long, spidery twigs, alive with writhing, scaly tendrils – prehensile fingers that could torture and kill without effort.

It seeemed that the Leshy hadn't realised he was there, given that he was still wearing his clothes back to front, inside out, upside down, however the hell else he'd managed to arrange them – for once the lore had been absolutely right – and Sam was happy to take advantage of that fact. The stringy limb that it had ensnared Dean with, was slowly moving down, slithering like a crooked black snake, encircling his chest, and pinning his arms to his side in the process. Crimson-faced and pebble-eyed Dean gaped, goldfish-like for air that wasn't coming, as he writhed and fought; his helpless struggles already growing weaker as the crushing force grew stronger and stronger, gradually starving him of air.

Sam acted in an instant, his blade sweeping down in a furious arc and hacking through the offending branch. He allowed himself a satisfied smirk as the Leshy let out a hoarse shriek, recoiling in shocked agony as the branch snapped loose, splattering thick, acrid brown sap across the ground.

Finally freed from his tormentor's grip, Dean dropped bonelessly to his knees, choking and gasping as he clawed blindly at the remaining strands which still clung tight around his throat and body.

If the creature hadn't been aware of Sam's presence before, it certainly was now, and it lashed out viciously with a tangle of long, mossy tendrils, cracking like a whip as they made sharp contact with Sam's face, snapping his head back and leaving a bleeding welt across his cheek. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, slamming him heavily into a nearby tree and knocking the breath from his lungs. Dislodged by the jolt, his blade dropped out of his hand and skittered across the ground.

Through his dazed shock, he could see Dean trying to crawl toward him through a foul mulch of stinking sap, thickened with the usual detritus of the forest's floor. Gasping harshly, Dean was still struggling to breathe, and Sam fortified himself; stumbling back to his feet as he saw the Leshy bearing down on Dean once again.

It took him a second to locate his blade, and a further moment to retrieve it before turning back to face the creature once more.

Dean had staggered giddily upright, but his florid face suggested that his breath still wasn't coming freely, and his lop-sided stance pointed to rib injuries, disorientation or both. Beside him, the creature loomed over him ten feet tall at least, and Sam shuddered as he guessed it could probably easily overpower both brothers even if they were at the top of their game. With them both injured, the odds were stacked in the Leshy's favour, and Sam didn't much care for those odds at all.

Grasping the hilt of his blade, Sam pulled in a deep breath, fighting to achieve some clarity through his ear-ringing daze. He thanked heaven that here on the edge of the forest, the thinning population of trees meant that there was enough clearance for him to keep sight of Dean.

At that moment, he didn't notice the stray shoot that had crept across the ground, squirming and tunnelling its way through the carpet of leaves at his feet. It suddenly reared up and grasped his wrist. Flicking upwards, it cruelly twisted the joint and Sam let out a pained yelp as he heard the muffled crack of his wrist breaking.

xxxxx

Dean could barely see through the haze of tears as he crawled away on elbows and knees from the Leshy. Through a thickening soup of sap together with soil and rotting leaves, the coppery stench of mildew and decay was enough to make him want to retch, as if his throat wasn't hurting enough already.

He had heard Sam's cry and he almost welcomed it. It jolted him to his senses; suddenly he had something else to focus on, something other than his own predicament. Sam was in trouble and therefore, as far as Dean was concerned, so was the Leshy.

With a trembling hand, he reached into the waistband of his jeans for his own blade. This skanky tree asshole was going to feel every wonderful moment of Dean's revenge, and Dean would make sure that revenge was something worth remembering. He glanced across at Sam, trying to catch his eye as he gripped the blade close to his body, in an effort to offer the reassurance that they both needed.

He was concentrating so hard on the matter in hand, he didn't even hear the faint whoosh behind him as the Leshy threw one long fibrous creeper over the sturdy branch of an ancient oak behind it.

xxxxx

Sam fumbled his blade into his free hand, but left-handed he was nowhere near the adversary he would normally be. He lashed out toward the tendril that held him, but managed no more than a glancing scratch and it yanked hard on his injured wrist in an act of petulant cruelty in return.

He hadn't noticed Dean's attempts to catch his eye, but he did hear the choked gasp as the Leshy's slithering creeper grasped Dean once more around the neck, coiling thickly and tightly as it did. Sliding back over the branch, it slowly and deliberately pulled Dean to his feet, then hauled him further upwards until he was hanging helplessly, legs a full twelve inches off the ground, kicking and thrashing spasmodically like a fish on a hook.

Dean's sudden distress was a potent anaesthetic and Sam suddenly wasn't feeling the pain of his broken wrist as he lunged forward, dropping to his knees and began to hack furiously at the creeping tendril which was working its way up his arm.

The creature shivered and moaned at the assault and another tendril whipped across Sam's line of vision, snatching his blade out of his hand, turning it back on him.

He gasped, recoiling as the razor-sharp metal flashed through thin air exactly where his head had been only seconds before. Undeterred, the Leshy drew back the blade once more, ready to strike again. It watched in malign glee as Sam shifted to and fro, desperately trying to anticipate where it would strike next. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could still see Dean's weakening struggles and for the first time he began to despair of being able help him.

That thought had only just crossed his mind when both he and the Leshy heard a guttural roar behind them.

xxxxx

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	8. Chapter 8

Tearing his eyes away from the Leshy for a fraction of a second, Sam looked up to see a massive shimmering black shape heading at speed toward them, the last amber rays of sunset glinting off her smooth angles as she bounced and rolled over the uneven ground, her headlamp beams cutting through the dusk like fiery beacons. As she hurtled toward the scene, swerving through the gaps in the trees, Baby's engine roared, filling the world around her with unspoken fury.

He recoiled as she thundered past him, rolling back to shield his eyes from the spray of leaf debris and soil that engulfed him in her wake.

His heart sank as he realised what she was going to do, and he watched in horrified silence, as she slammed into the Leshy, her weight and momentum forcibly driving it backwards until both she and the Leshy smashed headlong into the massive trunk of the ancient oak that Dean was hanging from.

The terrible squealing crunch of her hood and bodywork crumpling under the force of the crash was briefly punctuated by the gurgling screech of the Leshy; its body mortally crushed, virtually torn in half, between Baby's mangled front end and the unyielding column of oak behind it.

As the Leshy's life ebbed, the strength in its twitching limbs failed and the tendril circling Dean's neck uncoiled spasmodically, allowing him to drop to the ground. At that point Sam managed to shake off the bewildering shock that seemed to have temporarily paralysed him and gather his wits enough to run over to Dean, clutching his injured wrist to his chest as he dropped to his knees beside Dean's prone body.

Pressing two fingers into Dean's neck, he winced as he scanned the gruesome bruising that was blossoming there, and allowed himself a long sigh of relief on feeling a pulse; a pulse which, although racing, was encouragingly strong and steady, despite Dean's ordeal.

He felt Dean's shoulder bunch, as if he was pulling his arm beneath him in an effort to prop himself up, but Sam stilled him for the moment. "S'okay, dude," he reassured; "rest up, it's all over – Baby's saved the day."

Before Sam had a chance to bring his first aid training into play and prevent it, Dean turned his head, flinching as the motion hurt his neck, and looked through watering, unfocussed eyes at Sam. He opened his mouth to speak, but only the barest whisper of sound came out. Nevertheless, Sam clearly heard two words.

"Sam … Baby."

xxxxx

Glancing up, Sam bit his lip as he stared at the wreckage of Dean's Baby. She was little more than a grotesque tangle of sheared and twisted metal. Her one surviving headlamp flickered weakly through the gathering twilight as she listed drunkenly on a snapped axle beneath the hissing jet of steam which poured from her fractured radiator.

Sprawled over her crushed hood, as lifeless and boneless as a rag doll, was the great bulk of the Leshy; its shattered remains pinned to the tree trunk by her twisted frame. Sam's nose wrinkled as he noticed the stinking brown ichor dripping from its gaping mouth and running in a thick, muddy rivulet down the contours of her crumpled fender.

Metal forged in fire, he thought; that is what it would take to kill the Leshy. Baby was made of steel.

He felt his eyes begin to prickle.

xxxxx

Sam was feeling a completely irrational urge to rush over to her, to see for himself how catastrophic the damage to Baby actually was, but he knew what she would want him to do. So that's what he did; he stayed with Dean, carefully watching over him as the laborious and painful process of recovery slowly worked its magic on him.

After a short time when Dean started to become a little more lucid, and therefore more restless, Sam helped him up, enabling him to sit up straight. Taking a quick moment to assess what he saw, Sam noted that aside from the florid bruising around his neck, slightly bloodshot eyes and a general air of disorientation, Dean seemed as well as could be expected for someone who had just been throttled half to death. Whether that would last when he saw Baby, Sam mused, was another matter.

xxxxx

Dean's head was still spinning giddily; his neck hurt like nothing had ever hurt before, and his throat was on fire. Grimacing, he swallowed back a faint nausea from the giddiness, and groaned; he really and truly didn't know which way was up right now.

He had the faintest notion that Sam might have hurt himself. Not badly, he guessed; because Sam was still moving around and still seemed fairly calm and rational, but there was something weird about the way he was carrying himself; he seemed crooked, strained. However, Dean knew that right now his mind simply couldn't formulate the words to ask him if everything was okay.

Even if he could, he reflected, his stupid voice was so wrecked, the words would come out sounding like he was chewing razorblades anyway.

But right now Sam seemed okay; worried, but okay. He was sitting here with Dean, being all handsy – well, one-handsy anyway; pawing him about, checking him over for injuries, feeling his pulse, and looking him up and down, all concerned, with those stupid big, dewy puppy eyes of his.

It was only after a long few minutes that Dean realised those stupid big, dewy puppy eyes were looking over his shoulder, and focussing on something behind him.

Knowing that twisting his neck was a complete no-go right now, Dean moved to shuffle round in Sam's arms, slapping Sam's hand away when he tried to stop him.

Eventually, after much huffing and groaning, Dean had managed to turn a full 180 degrees. Eyes closed in exhausted relief, he leaned back into Sam's solid chest, silently breathing away the pain.

Then he opened his eyes.

"BABY!" He croaked, staring through the darkening gloom at the terrible sight before him, not caring how much it hurt to speak.

xxxxx

Standing shoulder to shoulder, in an effort to support each other both physically as well as emotionally, the Winchesters stared helplessly at Baby; Dean briefly chanced a glance at Sam, his eyes suspiciously shiny.

"Why," he whispered; "why'd she do this?"

"Because it was going to kill you," Sam stated matter-of-factly, fighting to steady his faltering voice; "it had broken my wrist taking my weapon away from me and had me pinned down, so I couldn't help you, and it was going to kill you," he explained with a heavy sigh; "she made herself our weapon. metal forged in fire."

Moving his flashlight across the grotesquely folded metal of her fender, Dean's nose wrinkled in disgust as he saw the spreading pool of viscous brown sap staining her hood.

Stiffly reaching round, he pulled off his jacket; "help me wipe this shit off her," he snarled, throwing his discarded coat over the stained metalwork and mopping the unwelcome liquid away.

"I'm gonna make this right;" he murmured huskily clutching Baby's fender as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, "I've done it before and I'll do it again now. I'll fix you up better than you've ever been, Baby," he whispered despairingly; "that's a promise, and I never break my promises to you."

The only response was a soft click as her flickering headlight failed.

xxxxx

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	9. Chapter 9

Three weeks had passed since the Winchesters' fateful encounter with the Leshy, and they had spent the best part of those three weeks licking their wounds back in the safety of the bunker. The only saving grace was that the Leshy was dead. Thanks to Baby, it was very, very dead, so that wasn't something they would have to concern themselves with.

In the immediate aftermath of the hunt, the brothers had never been so grateful for the closeness and discretion of the hunters' network. A quick call to a contact only an hour away had seen the brothers returned to the bunker via a local ER unit with a hastily concocted cover story involving a bolting horse and zero riding ability to explain Sam's broken wrist. Said contact had also seen to it that Baby was towed away to a place of safety, all without the inconvenience of having to involve the law, the parks authorities, and any other of those troublesome official bodies that like to ask way too many questions.

The downside of this, however, meant that far from resting up, which would have been the sensible option for someone who had come within a heartbeat of being fatally throttled, Dean spent his time pacing the bunker like a caged animal for five full days until finally the necessary arrangements were completed for Baby's wreckage to be returned to him.

And that was pretty much the last that Sam saw of him.

xxxxx

Standing in the middle of the bunker's spacious garage, Dean stared despondently down at the crumpled shell in front of him. This was Baby; a car – but yet suddenly so much more than a car. The pain of Dean's bruised neck and his assorted other injuries was nothing compared to the pain in his heart as he looked at what Baby had done to herself.

She'd done it to herself for him and for Sam; to save their lives. Dean didn't even know how to begin to reconcile himself to that knowledge.

As he bent down, he picked off a tiny cube of clear glass that was hanging from her smashed headlight and sighed as he slipped the tiny fragment into his shirt pocket, close to his heart.

"Gonna get you all fixed up now Baby," he whispered, running a hand along her crumpled bodywork; "whatever it takes, however long it takes, I'm gonna have you back good as new. You know that, don't you?"

He paused, half hoping, half waiting for a sassy response; and tried not to be disappointed when none came.

xxxxx

Over the following days, every time Sam ventured down to the garage, he would find Dean, wrench in hand, working like a man possessed; tightening bolts, bending crooked metal and replacing all manner of broken components. The smears of grease across Dean's face didn't hide the grey circles of exhaustion that were darkening under his eyes, but Sam knew better than to suggest that Dean got some rest. Repairing Baby was Dean's rest. Sam knew that asking Dean to walk away from her right now would be more tortuous than anything the Leshy could have done to him.

On one occasion when he'd headed down to the garage, juggling a mug of coffee and a plate of cookies with his one good arm, he'd found Dean sitting in the driver seat slumped, fast asleep across Baby's steering wheel.

Dean had looked so peaceful; sprawled over her fractured dashboard, his quiet breaths softly misting the windshield; that Sam hadn't been able to bring himself to wake him up. Carefully taking off his thick overshirt, he'd spread it across Dean's shoulders and quietly retreated, satisfied that Dean was getting some rest – in whatever form it might take.

xxxxx

But now, Baby was starting to look whole once again. Under Dean's expert attention and devoted care, she was taking shape more and more. Every day, Sam would see Dean come and go, stocking up on anything and everything; oil, tyres, primer, spare parts, and a myriad other various items, some of which Sam didn't even know the name of. As each day progressed, and Baby was a little closer to completion, Sam was sure he could see the hint of a sparkle returning to Dean's eyes. The day that Dean drove her out to a local spray booth to get her paintwork fixed up was the day that both brothers had longed for. This was the day they both hoped that she would finally come back to them.

When Sam heard the familiar growl of her engine, as she returned from the spray booth, he bolted down to the garage to meet Dean and, of course, Baby. She looked magnificent.

"How is she?" he grinned, looking down at the Impala's glossy black bodywork with delight.

"She's running great," Dean replied, rubbing a hand over the sleek contours of her roof; "I got her running as well as I've ever done before."

Sam's grin fell into a frown. He could see immediately that the proud smile playing on Dean's face belied an inner darkness, as if the light had gone out in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" He asked cautiously.

"Nothing's wrong," Dean replied cagily; "except … she's got a problem with one of her headlights – the damn thing keeps flickering."

Sam paused, glancing between Dean and the car that stood between them. "It's more than that …" he murmured, shaking his head; "… Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean paused, seemingly fortifying himself before he spoke. "I couldn't really find many parts here after the ones I put in her last time," he began hesitantly, "I've had to get the rest from outside; you know, local suppliers, scrapyards, those sorts of places."

Sam nodded. The silence that settled between them hung heavy in the air.

"I've been working on her for three weeks, Sam," Dean sighed; "and she hasn't said a word."

"Sam, I think we've lost her."

xxxxx

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	10. Chapter 10

Sam's head swivelled between his frowning brother and the imposing black car beside him as he processed what Dean had just told him; "what, nothing?" He repeated; "she's said nothing at all?"

Dean shook his head, his frown deepening as Baby's faulty headlight flickered; "nothing," he sighed with a weary shrug; "nada. I tried so hard to do what I did before, I've turned this damn place upside down looking for the same components I used then but I guess there just weren't enough of those enchanted parts left."

As if to put the icing on a very crappy cake, Baby's headlight flickered again.

"And I've still got to fix that damn light;" he grunted miserably; "I don't know what's freakin' wrong with it."

Taking in the defeated slump of Dean's shoulders, Sam knew that his brother was going to take this loss hard. His delight at having his Baby interact with him, tease him and show him he was loved, had suddenly been snatched away almost as soon as it had begun. It was more unfair than Sam could find the words for.

"You know," Sam began cautiously; "she's still your Baby; she was always special to you – to us - before you put those magic parts in her, and she still will be."

Dean looked up at Sam from under knotted brows and nodded silently.

"Now we know for sure what she feels about us," Sam continued, glancing across at his despondent brother's reflection in her gleaming black paintwork; "we can still make sure she knows that you care about her; that we both care about her."

"Yeah," Dean replied absently, not making eye-contact and clearly preoccupied with Baby's flickering headlight.

"Why don't you start by having a go at fixing that?" Sam suggested with a hopeful shrug; "you'll figure it out, I know you will."

But Dean wasn't listening any more.

xxxxx

"Hold on, Sam," he muttered quietly, waving a hand in front of the headlamp as it continued to flicker, sending rapid bursts of light strobing around the cavernous interior of the bunker's garage; "say that thing you said a minute ago, you know – the thing about caring for her…" he prompted.

Sam thought for a moment; "what? D'y mean when I said about making sure she knows we both care about her?"

Dean's face split into a grin almost as bright as Baby's errant headlight as it momentarily stopped flickering, then blinked twice in quick succession.

"Baby," he gasped breathlessly, crouching down in front of her grille; "is that you? Are you talking to us?"

Once again, the headlight blinked twice.

Sam's jaw dropped as he realised what was happening, and crouched down beside his brother. "How is that even possible?" He gasped.

Dean shook his head; "I don't know," he replied; "I did find a couple of parts here, which I put in her, but maybe it wasn't enough, or they weren't enchanted enough or ... who knows!"

"She's communicating in a different way …" Sam grinned; "you said her light has been flickering all the time since you started fixing her. Dean, what if she's been trying to tell us something?"

As those words left his lips, Baby's headlight flew into a wild frenzy, flickering and flashing like July the fourth.

"That's it," Dean snapped, slapping himself on the forehead; "oh Baby, you've been trying to talk to me all the time and I haven't been listening," he glanced at Sam, the tight set of his jaw belying his anger at himself. "What've you been trying to say?"

Her headlamp stilled for a moment, and then, after a brief pause, flicked on and off twice in quick succession.

"Twice for yes, once for no?" Sam asked, nodding in understanding as Baby's lamp flickered twice.

"Okay," Dean replied; "let's play twenty questions … do you want us to do anything for you?"

Two blinks.

The brothers glanced at each other, their excitement building.

Sam took a deep breath and continued; "Does Dean need to do some more work on you?"

Two blinks.

Dean hesitated in thought for a moment; "will we be able to get you back to how you were before you killed the Leshy?"

His question was rewarded with two blinks.

Dean's face lit up like a supernova as he turned to Sam, then back to Baby. "How?" he asked in his excitement.

"Yes or no," Sam reminded him, with a nudge; "hey, are there any more enchanted parts lying around the bunker that Dean doesn't know about?"

One blink.

"So … there aren't any more parts," he mused; "then how …"

"I've got it," Dean leapt to his feet, and clapped Sam on the shoulder hard enough to overbalance him.

"I need to work on her with the right sort of parts to get her back to how she was before," Dean explained; "there aren't any more of them … so we need to make our own!"

A broad smile of understanding spread across Sam's face as he picked himself up off the floor.

"The Men of Letters," he grinned, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it already; "they worked out how to enchant all those components for their artificial intelligence experiments years ago; there'll be a record of how they did it somewhere."

Dean nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly," he agreed, positively beaming with glee; "if we can't use the Letters' stockpile any more, then we'll just make our own magic parts!"

xxxxx

They both watched in awe as Baby affirmed their conclusion, her headlight blinking on and off almost continuously with an enthusiasm that was palpable.

Turning to Sam with a grin, Dean slapped him on the back; "well, Sammy, it looks like you've got a whole lot of awesome research to do."

Suddenly Baby's flickering headlight fell still before giving one very firm and prolonged blink, leaving Dean with the distinct feeling that he was being scolded.

Sam grinned in return; "yeah, and it looks like you're gonna be helping me, dude!"

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

It was actually quite unnerving.

Sam just couldn't quite recognise this bookish stranger that was sitting across the table from him, searching through the Letters' endless database with an almost religious fervour. This stranger who would beaver away for hours writing pages and pages of colour-coded notes without so much as a sigh, and who would sit contentedly tippy-tapping away on their laptop without once ever getting distracted by porn. (Sam knew his brother's 'I'm secretly surfing porn' expression far too well – and he would be perfectly happy never to see that look again).

The mysterious doppelganger looked like Dean; he sounded like Dean; he smelled like Dean – even after last night's onion and double jalopeno taco with extra garlic – but Sam still had to fight the urge to ask 'who are you and what have you done with my brother?'

Every night, this new, purpose-driven Dean would disappear for a couple of hours and Sam knew where he'd gone. He had taken a pile of folders and his coffee down to the garage to sit with his girl as he continued his work so that she wouldn't be alone all day.

If they didn't find the solution to this riddle, Sam thought, it sure wouldn't be for the want of trying.

Gradually, however, everything the brothers could find began to come together in a logical order and some answers began to emerge from the confusion.

Sam mused that this project must have been one of the last that the Men of Letters undertook before their sudden termination. The records were uncharacteristically scant, and poorly filed. That fitted in with the haphazard way the enchanted mechanical parts that Dean had originally found had been hastily packed and unsorted in random store cupboards down in the garage.

But finally, after ten days of backbreaking work, the Winchesters could finally believe they had an answer.

xxxxx

"Okay, so it looks like there are two parts to this ritual," Dean stated, reading from some of the notes he'd made; "it doesn't matter what bits and pieces we enchant, what matters is how we do the ritual."

Sam nodded in agreement; "yeah, the incantation all revolves around symbols of life," he began; "so first we have to draw out the ankh …"

"That's the ancient Egyptian key of life," Dean interrupted.

"… yeah the Egyptian key of life," Sam repeated; "we have to draw it out in charcoal from an Elder tree, then …"

"Why an Elder tree?" Dean asked, scanning his notes with a furrowed brow in case he'd missed anything.

"Because in Celtic lore, the Elder tree symbolises birth, renewal and regeneration," Sam replied; "the circle of life."

Dean nodded thoughtfully; "Elder tree it is then, we got any?"

"In the vaults," Sam replied; "Elder bark is used in a whole load of white magic, so the Men of Letters kept quite a lot of it."

"Cool," grinned Dean; "okay, so then we have to place the inanimate object that we want to enchant in the loop of the ankh that we've drawn and that's when we recite the incantation over it."

"Yep," Sam agreed; "accipere vita accipitis cogitatione accipere animam," he read; "it means 'receive life, receive thought, receive soul."

Dean nodded, and gnawed his lip in thought for a moment; "so that's it then?"

"Not quite," Sam replied absently, reading down his own notes; "as we read the incantation, we have to sprinkle the inanimate object with, uh, blood."

"Blood?"

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded; "blood is synonymous with life, an animal can't live without it."

"Yeah, well I don't know what synonymous means," Dean snorted; "but I get your meaning."

"Oh, and it has to be human blood."

"Okay," sighed Dean, "it's for my baby, so no big deal."

"The object will take on the characteristics of the creature that gave its blood for the incantation, so if we used a dog's blood for instance," Sam explained cautiously, seeing Dean's eyes narrowing more and more dangerously with every word he said; "she'd take on the characteristics of a …"

"Don't even go there," growled Dean; "you turn my baby into a dog an' I'll turn you into someone with a broken nose."

"I never said I was turning her into a dog, asshat," Sam retorted; "I'm just illustrating a point – the point that it has to be human blood if we want her to talk again."

"Okay," snorted Dean impatiently as he rolled up his sleeve; "feel free to bleed me!"

"Not yet," shrugged Sam; "you've got to take the parts that we want to enchant out of her first."

"Oh yeah," Dean grinned, rolling his sleeve back down as he leapt up out of his chair; "I'll get onto that right now."

xxxxx

The incantation appeared to go without a hitch, and while Sam retired to the bathroom to shower away an accumulation of charcoal and bloodstains, Dean had gleefully walked away with a fistful of enchanted nuts, bolts and rivets to heal Baby with.

He was still absent when Sam emerged from the bathroom almost an hour later and headed for the coffee maker. Pouring himself a drink, he retired to the main hall, with the latest newspaper under his arm and pulled out a chair at one of the big tables in the middle of the room.

It was going to be nice, he thought, to read up on something other than long-lost life incantations for a change.

He'd been sat only a moment and hadn't even opened his newspaper when a cut glass English accent rang out from underneath him.

"Hello Sam, nice to meet you at last; it's a pleasure to be accommodating your arse tonight!"

Coffee. chair and newspaper went flying as he leapt out of the chair with a yelp, and stumbled sideways in shock. Losing his footing, he toppled over and ended up in an undignified sprawl beside the table.

As he looked up, he saw Dean walking toward him, a broad grin splitting his face in two, "hey Sammy," he exclaimed; "it worked, I can fix Baby up now!"

"Wha … uh?" Sam mumbled as he looked up at Dean.

Dean shrugged; "well, you didn't think I was gonna put any old magic crap in Baby without testing it first, did ya?"

xxxxx

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

After the incident with the talking chair which Dean was commanded under pain of death and chinese burns (not necessarily in that order) to rectify, he disappeared down into the garage, armed with a box of tools, a bag containing the enchanted parts, a soldering iron, a cup of coffee and the biggest bag of chips Sam had ever seen.

Knowing that Dean wouldn't appreciate any kind of distraction, Sam left him to his own devices, occasionally venturing down to the garage delivering top-ups of coffee, a regular supply of jelly donuts and a little moral support.

Each time he ventured down, he found Dean, contorted into increasingly more impossible positions, working tirelessly in, around and under the Impala, each time a little more grease stained, and a little more impatient for a reaction which as yet hadn't appeared to be forthcoming.

He hoped against hope that Dean wouldn't be disappointed once again.

xxxxx

letting loose a jaw-cracking yawn, Sam arched into a long stretch. He'd lost himself in a pile of Etruscan texts in the library and had completely lost track of time. The creeping shadows that had deepened around the little pool of light from the table lamp beside him told him it was very late; the clock on the wall behind him confirmed it. It was well past midnight and as he sat back, trying to roll the tension out of his shoulders, and he realised how tired he was.

Rising from his chair – a non-talking chair he was relieved to note – he walked back up through the main hall, to be met with silence, save for the echo of his footsteps around the cavernous space; and emptiness.

Scratching his head and then his ass in turn, Sam knew exactly where he'd find Dean, and he began the long walk down to the garage.

xxxxx

Entering the garage he found the Impala standing in the middle of the room, gleaming under the glare of a pair of arc lights. She was surrounded by oil stained sheets, scattered tools, empty coffee mugs and, Sam noted, a pair of Dean's boots tossed on the ground beside her.

Peering through her wide open driver's door, Sam saw Dean sprawled into her drivers' seat, his socked feet crossed at the ankles and resting on her dash next to the steering wheel. He snored softly into his shoulder, as sound asleep as Sam wanted to be right at that moment.

Sam smiled to himself as he leaned forward, reaching into the car to nudge Dean awake, when a voice stopped him.

"shhh …" came the voice, quiet as a whisper; "let him sleep, Sammy; he needs his rest."

Sam gasped as his face split into a grin and he nodded, patting the Impala quietly on the fender.

"Sure thing," he replied as he reached up to switch off the arc lights that Dean hadn't got around to switching off before sleep overtook him; "and welcome back Baby."

Wishing his brother and the car a whispered 'goodnight', Sam made his way back to the main bunker; walking on air the whole way. Stopping off in the main hall, he poured himself a scotch and settled into one of the great Chesterfield armchairs that dotted the bunker to drink it. It was barely a moment later that the drained tumbler dropped limply into his lap as sleep claimed him.

xxxxx

Dean woke the following morning, blinking the heavy fog of sleep from his eyes, and yawned loudly; groaning as he contorted himself to stretch the kinks out of his back within the confines of the Impala's cramped interior.

He sat up, scratched his nose and stretched again.

"Mornin' baby," he grunted absently into the echoing silence of the garage.

"Good morning Deanie-Bean," came the response.

Dean jumped so high in his shock he bashed his head against her roof, letting loose a stream of muttered curses.

"Dean Winchester," she scolded; "you mind your language!"

xxxxx

After a day of reacquainting themselves with their much-missed companion, the brothers said their goodnights to the impala and switched the garage light off.

"So she's back," Sam grinned as they headed back to the main bunker; "good as new."

"Yup," Dean replied, radiant with satisfaction; "an' she says you should get a haircut."

"Hmph," Sam's smile faltered; "she's a car, what does she know about hairstyles?"

"More than you, Sasquatch," countered Dean with a mischievious grin, ignoring the elbow in the ribs that came from Sam's direction.

The brothers fell into a companionable silence as they walked, and it was Sam that eventually broke it; "what about those enchanted parts," he asked; "did you use them all?"

Dean shook his head; "no, I tested a couple …"

"Yeah, I remember," snorted Sam.

"… and I used as many as I could in her. I've still got a few left, and now we know what to do, I'll make more so that we're never out of them again."

Dean's eyes sparkled with pure, unhidden joy. It was so rarely that Sam ever saw that look on Dean's face, he wished he could bottle it and save it forever. There was something about that look that made everything right with the world.

Dean grinned, throwing his arms above his head as he took a deep breath; "my Baby's back, and life's good. I've promised her I'm gonna take her for a long drive tomorrow to stretch her legs – wheels … whatever. Wanna come?"

Sam smiled and shook his head; "not this time dude, I'll let her have you all to herself for a while!"

"That's my boy," Dean playfully punched Sam's shoulder, and Sam couldn't even find it within himself to pull a bitchface.

xxxxx

Sam made his way to his bedroom. He definitely wasn't going to spend another night slumped exhausted in an armchair, and with the general air of wellbeing that was pervading the bunker tonight, his bed looked mightily inviting.

Toeing off his boots, he stepped out of his jeans and pulled his T shirt over his head. He dropped bonelessly down onto the mattress and let out a sigh as his head sunk into the plump down of the pillow beneath him.

It was good to know that, even as a Winchester, when all you were entitled to expect was crap and pain, there were days like this. Days when everything was great; when Dean was the best brother in the world; when life was just freakin' awesome.

That was the thought that crossed his mind just seconds before a cheery voice piped up from underneath his mattress and wished him goodnight.

Sam's eyes snapped open.

"DEEAAAAN ... YOU ASSHOLE!

xxxxx

end


End file.
